Photo taken by contributor Ty Fitzgerald, a man who has been diagnosed with Bipolar II. Ty has a fondness for Lo-fi and Lux filters because they intensify shadows, highlights and colors. Such photos visually represent the way he sees the world, a little brighter and darker than he imagines those without bipolar disorder see the world.

About this photo: “This photo was taken in New Smyrna Beach, FL at sunset. A father and son were fishing and I managed to get a shot with just the son in it. The tide was coming in and there was water pooling all around him. When I dropped to the sand to take the shot, it looked like he was walking on water. I like this shot a lot because it has that “decisive moment” that Henri Cartier-Bresson described, where just a split second sooner or later, it would not have worked. I like to take photos of people when…

The world is all but fixed
Nature is playing its tricks
Day and night all over again,
Sun and the moon dance in a game.

Further away an ocean roared,
As wave after wave swept the sand
Again I realize, the world is all but fixed
As i watched the name in sand disappear.

In the farthest point I could see,
After which i could see no more,
I saw it all and watched it all,
Till i could see none anymore
The evening melted into the night,
the night into the light
And the music of nature played on.

Ruins and ruins
Is all I see,
officers, brothers,
enemies and friends alike.
Who did we die for ?
The more i watch.
The more i realize.
Petty issues got dragged too far
and here i stand in a WAR

Cries and shrieks
the bombed bridge creaks
Every bullet for every ounce of flesh speaks,
I just hit the target.
didn’t differ enemy or friend i bet
If any how this all could get better
you would not be reading the silence of a martyr.

My old gun is smoked and burning
I lost another brother round that turning.
Heard him fall down that aisle.
Oh,how i just want to tell him
That i could do nothing for him
if i would, the next bullet would be waiting for me.

And all i feel is sorrow and regret
thats how a martyr’s life ends
garland twice a year on the grave.
thats how they salute the brave
how i wish i could tell my mother “I am here”
if only ! then you wouldn’t be reading the silence of a martyr.

Wounds have now stopped to pain,
oh lord ! how much i wish the rain!
to splutter on my lips.
And drain it all away.
the rivers of blood
to the Holy Gange.

the medals still shine
through the drops of tear and rent.
they fake a smile in vain
but i know they are dying in pain.
there is no victory or defeat.
Just red and dead on the street.

right or wrong is left behind
it isn’t about righteousness at all
its only about those who fall
you cant survive a war,
cause even if you get enough far.
it will haunt you all your life.
at the end of the day
battlefield is painted red in colour.
this is why , you are reading the silence of a martyr.

Posted from WordPress for Android by Mayank Mishra (mayank.mishra@stu.upes.ac.in)

At the age of 17, I discovered the poet in me after a heartbreak. My love only increased for her ever since. At first, my poems were an expression of love and affection towards the person who I adored so much, but later words flowed more as a realisation of an important lesson of life. One does not get everything one wants and loss of something makes you understand and appreciate its value. Poetry flowed from my soul onto paper and I discovered my unconditional love for something even better, the thought to pursue poetry writing automatically followed. Poetry helped me beat my sorrow and pickup the valuable lesson learnt from it. Sometimes words written on paper hold far more power than those expressed aloud. Those words which took the form of mere poetry were actually my wounds leaving my soul. In a way poetry helped me recover and rejuvenated…

Is there a place to be ?
Where I can be free !
Of the multitudes of colors.
Beyond the grip of rumours,
Indulging in sharp boundary
Between love and treachary.
There must be some reason
Amidst this poisonous treason.
For all I can remember,
Is a burning pyre
And above it, the black smoke
Of my burning dreams rose
To the point of desperation
I was madly driven.
But I collided.
And now I am wondering,
Is there a place to be..?
Still I dream again.

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Whispers of Immortality is the essence of poetry writing. It is the freedom to make mistakes, experience life and to walk one's own path.
Robert Frost put it aptly about poetry, “A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.”